


if i could remix my roses

by picturecat



Series: 3490 fics [4]
Category: Marvel 3490, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Established Relationship, F/M, Lazy Mornings, M/M, Minor Injuries, Mother-Daughter Relationship, Mother-Son Relationship, i wrote this for mother's day but i missed the landing by like 5 years, stay tuned to find out the answer is definitely not, will i ever refer to natasha stark with a consistent nickname?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-30
Updated: 2020-11-30
Packaged: 2021-03-09 21:14:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,635
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27802861
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/picturecat/pseuds/picturecat
Summary: Some mornings are better than others.Having been recently stabbed isn't a stellar way to start one, but a cuddly husband is one hell of a mitigating factor.
Relationships: Steve Rogers/Natasha Stark, Steve Rogers/Tony Stark
Series: 3490 fics [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2034253
Comments: 3
Kudos: 48





	if i could remix my roses

**Author's Note:**

> I've had this draft in my WIPs forever. As in like, I actually checked and I started it in February 2016. I know I meant to post it on Mother's Day—at this point, having failed this many years in a row, I figured I'd just go ahead and post it.

Tasha woke up with most of Steve’s body intertwined with hers. It wasn’t a _bad_ way to wake up, that’s for sure. A little hot and heavy, and not in the fun way, but she got to have one of Steve’s strong, thick thighs slung over her legs, so.

Mmm. Steve had gorgeous thighs. She wanted to bite them.

Tasha started to shift, thinking vaguely of waking him up with her mouth, and then stiffened as a sharp, hot pain shot up from her ribs. 

Oh. Yeah.

Steve always did get clingy whenever she took a hit, even when it was a relatively minor one. 

(She’d only gotten stabbed a little bit.)

Steve sighed, his hand sliding over her stomach, and made the grumbly little in-his-throat sound that meant he was about to wake up. Tasha turned her head to watch it happen, her lips quirking.

Steve’s eyelids fluttered and his brow furrowed, and he sighed again, a long exhale, and opened his eyes.

“Morning,” Tasha smiled.

Steve blinked at her sleepily.

“Morning,” he mumbled, and gently disentangled their bodies so that he could indulge in a long, satisfactory stretch. 

When he was done he reached for Tasha, resting a hand in her hair, and scooted closer. He kissed the side of her head. 

“Pretty sure I like waking up to you,” he said, voice all rumbly from sleep. 

She tilted her head back against the pillow, closing her eyes. “Hope so,” she said. “You're stuck with me now, Cap.”

Steve nosed against her cheek, making a shushing sound. His free hand was now buried in the hair on the other side of her head, twining gently. 

Obediently, Natasha relaxed, letting waking thoughts drift away. Steve was warm and sleep-sweet beside her, and when she turned her head just slightly toward him they were resting literally cheek to cheek. 

For a while, that was all there was to it. Steve's breath on her neck, his arm across her chest, his leg gently sliding against her own. Time felt warm and lazy, and there was nothing to worry about except for being close to Steve and dozing in the early morning. 

Pain came creeping in. Sharp and unwelcome and intruding on their easy morning, aching fiercely no matter how intent Tasha was on sleeping through it. 

She moved to press her hand against her bandages, groaning a little in her throat, and Steve lifted his head, immediately awake. 

“‘S’it hurting you?”

Natasha held up her thumb and forefinger about a centimeter apart. Steve huffed. 

“I'll grab your pain meds,” he said, dipping his head to kiss her cheek. Cranky, Tasha dropped her arm back into the blankets and pulled Steve’s pillow over her face. It smelled like him, his appallingly cheap bar soap.

She heard the sink running in the bathroom and a shuffling sound, and then the bed dipped on Steve’s side. A warm hand pressed two oblong pills into her palm, and Steve’s pillow lifted off her face. 

“Sit up for a sec,” he said, and braced a palm under her back to help her. 

Sitting up made the wound throb harshly, and Natasha hissed through her teeth as she settled gingerly against the headboard. 

Steve handed her the glass. 

“Don't look so worried,” Tasha said, hating the tight, unhappy expression on his face. She popped the pills in her mouth and swallowed them down with the water, then turned to Steve with her most winning smile. “You know I'm just playing it all up to get you to pamper me.”

Steve snorted. Clearly he knew better, but at least he wasn't making that face anymore. 

“Lemme look at the bandages,” he said, flipping the covers back, and Natasha settled slowly against the pillows. Steve peeled back her shirt. 

“How’s it look, Nurse Rogers?” she prompted.

“Not too dire, Ms. Stark; you haven't bled through your bandages.” He smiled at her, smoothing her shirt back down. “But please, call me Steve. Nurse Rogers was my mother.”

Natasha grinned. “That's right, isn't it? Hey, tell me about her.”

Steve paused. He sat back, tilting his head at her. “What, really?”

“Yeah, come on. I'll trade you. Just tell me something.”

Steve shook his head, smiling ruefully. “She’d have liked you.”

“That doesn’t count.”

Steve shot her an exasperated look and leaned back into the covers, propped up on one elbow to watch her face. He started playing with her hair again, twisting the ends of it around his finger. 

“She’d have liked you because I love you,” he said. His expression was distant, fond. “She’d have been happy I found someone so wonderful. And she would have really, enthusiastically gotten on with you.”

“With me?” Natasha repeated, eyebrows raised. 

Steve quirked a smile. “I know you think you're impossible, but trust me, yes. You'd have gotten on like a house on fire and I'd have never had a day of peace.”

“What was she like?” Natasha asked, watching Steve's face. 

“Strong,” he answered immediately. “I still feel like she's the strongest person I've ever known. Even when she was starving and exhausted and sick I thought... she could do anything.”

Natasha didn't dare turn over and risk aggravating her wound, but she wanted so badly to drape herself on top of Steve and smother his wistful expression with kisses. She settled for kissing his fingers where they were twined in her hair. 

He smiled. “She was kind. Never turned away a sick neighbor or a scraped knee. Hell of a temper, sometimes,” he said, a little ruefully, thinking of the way her eyes would flash when something set her off. “She kept all my drawings in an old shoebox. She frowned at me every time I worried about money. Said it wasn't my problem.”

“Stubborn, then,” Natasha supplied, smiling a little. 

“Oh yes,” Steve said, flopping onto his back. “But resourceful enough to make that work for her. All my life she had this big pot that she grew potatoes in. I mean—” and Steve made a big circle with his arms, “really huge. I have no idea where she got it.” 

“Just potatoes?”

“Yeah. She liked having a little gardening to do, I think. Think she always wanted to grow flowers though. I used to— I would daydream about making enough money somehow to get her a house. Someplace with room to breathe and enough yard for her to plant whatever the hell she wanted.” He stared up at the ceiling, smile fading. “That was always kind of a pipe dream.”

Damn the stab wound, honestly. Natasha rolled over as gingerly as she could, gritting her teeth against the sharp flare of pain. It throbbed hotly even as she settled against Steve’s side, resting her head on his chest. His heartbeat thumped steadily under her ear. 

“I'm sorry you never got to do that,” she said. Steve’s arms came up around her, warm and gentle. The pain in her ribs ebbed, slowly. 

“She was the only person who always believed that I would be more. Do more,” he said roughly. “She never got to see it. Even if she hadn't gotten sick, she’d still be long gone by now.”

Natasha turned her head just enough to kiss whatever part of him was closest to her mouth. “She loved you.”

“Every day of my life,” Steve said, and exhaled slowly. One hand rested in Tasha’s hair, heavy and warm, and maybe the pain meds were starting to take effect, because she was starting to feel warm and heavy too.

“Your turn,” Steve prompted, and Tasha came awake again. She made a small sound against Steve’s chest. 

“My mom,” she said, thinking. “My mom, she held garden parties. She played the piano. She dressed me up in adorable outfits that I completely ruined. Dad loved her, but he wasn't very good at it.”

She stared at the far wall. “I grew up— I got mad at her, for staying, sometimes. I thought maybe she stayed for my sake. I hated it. But she just loved him. She just didn't want anyone else.”

“She wasn't happy, though?”

Tasha shrugged. “Maybe they were before I was born. Maybe when I was little. But he wasn't a very good parent, and they fought about it a lot.

“She loved me. She sang to me when I was sick. She used to come watch me build things and pretend to be my assistant. I loved her too, but I was always—” she stopped and propped herself up on Steve’s chest, meeting his eyes, solemn and blue. “I was so sure I would end up like her,” she said softly. “In love and unhappy and unwilling to leave.”

Steve curled upwards to press their foreheads together, holding the position just long enough to kiss her, slowly, and exhale against her lips. When he laid back down she followed him, pressing soft little kisses against the edges of his mouth.

For a long while, everything was quiet in the early morning, grey and warm. Steve’s hand wove itself into her hair and stayed there, resting against the back of her neck. And Natasha stared at their room, at what she could see of it past the plane of his chest and the large swell of his bicep. 

“My mom would be disappointed in me if I messed up loving you,” Steve said at one point, and Natasha opened her eyes and wondered when she’d closed them in the first place. She shifted a little, adjusting her head on Steve’s chest. 

“My mom would want me to be happy,” she murmured. “I think she was afraid I would end up like her, too.”

“Tell me if I'm not loving you right. I'll do better,” he said. 

She smiled. “I wouldn't worry about it.”


End file.
